Birthday's letter
by coliveira
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John opens his heart while writing him a letter to celebrate his birthday. If you want to have a better understanding about the context, please read the first chapter of my story "Since Sherlock was gone".


Baker Street, January 6th, 2012

Dear Sherlock:

This morning, when I woke up, I thought, for an instant, it was the beginning of a common day – a devastating, disturbing agglomerate of minutes, thinking about the mistakes from my past. I realized soon I was wrong – this specific morning wouldn't be equal to every other I had since you were gone. Today, my beloved friend, it's time to mark the celebration of an unique, blessed event. Yes, Sherlock; today's your birthday.

Sometimes I imagine how you face should have looked as a baby, with wide blue eyes and black hair, grinning and babbling happily, not even conscious of the heavy burden placed over your shoulders – the gift of an astonishing intelligence, of a type Human kind has never truly understood. I say burden because, to you, it was never a blessing; you were so altruistic you've decided to forget your own life in order to fix others. People looked for you, demanded your attention, overwhelmed you with their worries and never cared about the way you were feeling – they tagged you as a "freak" because, unavoidably, you made them feel so mediocre. No surprise, though; even Einstein would feel second-rate when confronted with your skills, your impossible deductions, your noble, humble behavior. Now I fully understand why I thought you were not human – you perfection simply didn't fit such a wicked, corrupt society.

I remember the same date, one year before. I secretly went to the bakery, searching for the chocolate cake you liked the most. You were still asleep when I came back. I really regret I didn't take a picture of your face while seeing the cake, after getting up – a mixture of emotion, confusion and joy, of many sentiments that were usually well hidden inside of you. 'How did you know, John?', you asked. 'How did you remember?'. That time, my only answer was a huge smile, relieved by your good reaction. Now, I'll clear this up. You should know I never forget, Sherlock; not you. Never.

Is this inability to obliterating pain what keeps me awake at night – this lack of self-control, which always scared you, is driving me mad. Most of all, what slowly kills me is to discern how much I miss your deep voice, your fingers against the violin, your scarf laying on the couch. Perhaps is missing you so much that makes me relive the same nightmare, over and over again. I still don't understand why does my mind force me to watch you standing on some building's roof. Why do I have to hear your trembling words? Why do I have to watch you falling, numb, see your blood staining the sidewalk with an intense red while grabbing your lifeless, cold hand, trying to stop you from going away?

I know you weren't the type of person who regretted past. You always moved on, even when it was harsh. Even though you were an example for me, I can't imitate you. Moving on means to leave you, to abandon the beautiful picture printed deeply in my heart. I'm not ready for that, and I severely doubt someday I will. My sorrow could only be treated by changing the past, by altering the fateful day your life was taken. I would give everything I have just for a few seconds talking on the phone with you again.

This time, everything would be different. Surrounded by all the uncertainty and cruelty people constantly thrown towards you, I would say what you most needed to hear: _I love you_. And I would repeat it, slowly, letting you understanding what such a phrase truly meant. Then, strengthened by three apparently insignificant words, you could come down, calmly. Since love means to care about someone, putting everything behind just for a single person, I'm sure my words would sound very sincere to you.

Now, however, it's too late. I was coward. I wasn't there when you most needed me. I let Moriarty poisoning your pure soul. I failed, Sher, since the very beginning. Please, please, forgive me…

This letter was supposed to praise the best human being I had the privilege to know, and ended up as a confession and a shameful portrait of myself. But today's your birthday. It's time to reassure things. It's time to repeat me, John Watson, I'm not the forgetting type. Not you. Not us. Not now. And even the abundant tears won't stop me from saying this to you: wherever you are, whatever you have done, I love you for all you became and will always define.

Forever your best friend, in happiness, sorrow, sickness and health,

John Hamish Watson.

**Thanks a lot for having read my story. If you have liked, please let me know by reviewing it or sending me a private message. I really appreciate your commentaries. Have a nice day! :) **


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